


Controlled Chaos

by Luna (lunasky)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasky/pseuds/Luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray knows all about controlled chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Controlled Chaos

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little something I started writing for the 12 Days of GK Challenge, but I got too bogged down, and then just plain forgot about it until shoshannagold reminded me a few days ago. Oops. So here it is, a little Brad/Ray UST for shoshannagold (who I also made beta it).

Ray knows all about controlled chaos. He supposes that in some fucked-up, metaphorical, dip-shit-higher-meaning-kind-of-way, Godfather believes that what they're doing here is controlled chaos. Godfather probably gets a fucking hard on thinking about it because it fits right in some cosmic-fucking-karmic way with General Mattis' super-fucking master plan. But seriously? What kind of fucking military commander has a mother-fucking nickname of Chaos? Chaos is some pansy ass colorful fractal shit that geeks who don't get laid like to decorate their walls with, fucking magnetic fields of celestial bodies and broccoli heads. It has nothing to do with invading a small, backward country full of people wearing pajamas.

Not that Ray's ever seen a broccoli head he'd want to photograph and put up on his fucking wall. That sort of shit is just mother-fucking gay. But Ray knows what controlled chaos is because he's been living with it for the last four days and fifty-two hours which if he were a little less strung out on Ripped Fuel, adrenaline, and lack of sleep, he might be able to reduce to its lowest fractional form because he's not a fucking retard after all. No, Ray knows all sorts of shit, could have gone to Vanderbilt and maybe he might still go when he gets out of the Corps and do some Engineering. Because he likes to use his brain, and really, there's a very small chance the band'll get back together now, though the downside is Engineers get a heck of a lot less pussy than rock stars and maybe that's part of the problem with the world. Pussy rewards the fucking idiots who were too stupid (or high) to go to school and instead smoked up in their parent's garage until what they were strumming on their guitars finally started to sound good.

"Ray, is there a point to all this," Brad says interrupting Ray's thoughts, startling the shit out of him because it turns out he's been spewing this crap from his mouth for the last ten minutes.

Of course there's a fucking point. The fucking point is that if Ray doesn't let these thoughts ramble out of his mouth, then there's the chance that something important will come tumbling out instead. And while there's a hell of a lot Brad's willing to put up with, even Ray can tell when something's going to cross the line.

Because country music, pussy, bands and broccoli heads might be appropriate conversation for traveling in a Humvee along a fucking desert in the middle of butt-fuck Iraq, having fucking gay-ass touchy-feely moments with your team leader about your fucking, homoerotic fantasies featuring the two of you, probably isn't.

"I hate Broccoli," Trombley chimes in from the back seat.

Ray grins, showing some teeth, relaxing his shoulders a little. Sometimes he worries what'll happen when he runs out of things to say to cover up the things he shouldn't. Good thing the way this war is going it's going to be months before he runs out of commentary on the sheer retardation of this bullshit.


End file.
